And on this count, if no other, Strike was forced to agree with Irene Hickson. He asked himself why it had taken him so long to look closer at an alibi he’d known from the first was barely adequate, and why he’d taken Janice’s word at face value, when he’d challenged almost everyone else’s. He was forced to conclude that, like the women who’d climbed willingly into Dennis Creed’s van, he’d been hoodwinked by a careful performance of femininity. Just as Creed had camouflaged himself behind an apparently fey and gentle façade, so Janice had hidden behind the persona of the nurturer, the selfless giver, the compassionate mother. Strike had preferred her apparent modesty to Irene’s garrulity and her sweetness to her friend’s spite, yet knew he’d have been far less ready to take those traits at face value, had he met them in a man. Ceres is nurturing and protective. Cancer is kind, instinct is to protect. A hefty dose of self-recrimination tempered Strike’s celebrations, which puzzled Ilsa and Nick, who were inclined to gloat over the newspaper reports of their friend’s latest and most celebrated detective triumph.
Meanwhile, Anna Phipps was longing to thank Strike and Robin in person, but the detective partners postponed a meeting until the first effusion of press attention died down. The hypercautious Strike, whose beard was now coming along nicely, finally agreed to a meeting over two weeks after Margot’s body had been found. Though he and Robin had been in daily contact by phone, this would also be the first time they’d met since solving the case.
Rain pattered against the window of Nick and Ilsa’s spare bedroom as Strike dressed that morning. He was pulling a sock over his false foot when his mobile beeped from the bedside table. Expecting to see a message from Robin, possibly warning him that press were on the prowl outside Anna and Kim’s house, he saw, instead, Charlotte’s name.
Hello Bluey. I thought Jago had thrown this phone away, but I’ve just found it hidden at the back of a cupboard. So, you’ve done another amazing thing. I’ve been reading all about you in the press. I wish they had some decent pictures of you, but I suppose you’re glad they don’t? Congratulations, anyway. It must feel good to prove everyone who didn’t believe in the agency wrong. Which includes me, I suppose. I wish I’d been more supportive, but it’s too late now. I don’t know whether you’ll be glad to hear from me or not. Probably not. You never called the hospital, or if you did, nobody told me. Maybe you’d have been secretly glad if I’d died? A problem solved, and you like solving things… Don’t think I’m not grateful. I suppose I am, or I will be, one day. But I know you’d have done what you did for anyone. That’s your code, isn’t it? And I always wanted something particular from you, something you wouldn’t give anyone else. Funny, I’ve started to appreciate people who’re decent to everyone, but it’s too late for that, too, isn’t it? Jago and I are separating, only he doesn’t want to call it that yet, because leaving your suicidal wife isn’t a good look and nobody would believe it’s me leaving him. I still mean the thing I said to you at the end. I always will.
Strike sat back down on the spare bed, mobile in his hands, one sock on, one off. The rainy daylight illuminated the phone’s screen, reflecting his bearded face back at him as he scowled at a text so Charlottian he could have written it himself: the apparent resignation to her fate, the attempts to provoke him into reassurance, the vulnerability wielded like a weapon. Had she really left Jago? Where were the now two-year-old twins? He thought of all the things he could have told her, which would have given her hope: that he’d wanted to call the hospital, that he’d dreamed about her since the suicide attempt, that she retained a potent hold over his imagination that he’d tried to exorcize but couldn’t. He considered ignoring the message, but then, on the point of setting the mobile back down, changed his mind, and, character by careful character, typed out his brief response.
You’re right, I’d have done what I did for anyone. That doesn’t mean I’m not glad you’re alive, because I am. But you need to stay alive for yourself and your kids now. I’m about to change my number. Look after yourself.
He re-read his words before sending. She’d doubtless experience the words as a blow, but he’d done a lot of thinking since her suicide attempt. Having always told himself that he’d never changed his number because too many contacts had it, he’d lately admitted to himself that he’d wanted to keep a channel of communication open between himself and Charlotte, because he wanted to know she couldn’t forget him, any more than he could forget her. It was time to cut that last, thin thread. He pressed “send” on the text, then finished dressing.
Having made sure that both of Nick and Ilsa’s cats were shut up in the kitchen, he left the house. Another text from Charlotte arrived as he was walking up the road in the rain.
I don’t think I’ve ever felt so envious in my life as I am of that girl Robin.
And this, Strike decided to ignore.
He’d set off for Clapham South station deliberately early, because he wanted time for a cigarette before Robin picked him up and drove them the short distance to Anna and Kim’s flat. Standing beneath the overhang outside the station, he lit up, looking out over a row of bicycles at a muddy corner of Clapham Common, where ochre-leaved trees shivered in the downpour. He’d only taken a couple of drags on his cigarette when his mobile rang in his pocket. Resolving not to answer if it was Charlotte, he pulled it out and saw Polworth’s name.
“All right, Chum?”
“Still got time for the little people, then, Sherlock?”
“I can spare you a minute or two,” said Strike, watching the rain. “Wouldn’t want people to think I’ve lost the common touch. How’s things?”
“We’re coming up to London for a weekend.”
Polworth sounded about as excited as a man facing a colonoscopy.
“I thought London was the heart of all evil?”
“Not my choice. It’s Roz’s birthday. She wants to see the fucking Lion King and Trafalgar Square and shit.”
“If you’re looking for somewhere to stay, I’ve only got one bedroom.”
“We’re booked into an Airbnb. Weekend after next. Just wondered if you were up for a pint. Could bring your Robin along, so Penny’s got someone to talk to. Unless, I dunno, the fucking Queen’s got a job for you.”
“Well, she has, but I told her the waiting list’s full. That’d be great,” said Strike. “What else is new?”
“Nothing,” said Polworth. “You saw the Scots bottled it?”
The old Land Rover had appeared in a line of traffic. Having no desire to get onto the subject of Celtic nationalism, Strike said,
“If ‘bottling’ ’s what you want to call it, yeah. Listen, I’m gonna have to go, mate, Robin’s about to pick me up in the car. I’ll ring you later.”
Chucking his cigarette end down a nearby storm drain, he was ready to climb into the Land Rover as soon as Robin pulled up.
“Morning,” she said, as Strike hoisted himself into the passenger seat. “Am I late?”
“No, I was early.”
“Nice beard,” said Robin, as she pulled away from the curb in the rain. “You look like a guerrilla leader who’s just pulled off a successful coup.”
“Feel like one,” said Strike, and in fact, right now, reunited with Robin, he felt the straightforward sense of triumph that had eluded him for days.
“Was that Pat you were just talking to?” asked Robin. “On the phone?”
“No, Polworth. He’s coming up to London weekend after next.”
“I thought he hated London?”
“He does. One of his kids wants to visit. He wants to meet you, but I wouldn’t advise it.”
“Why not?” asked Robin, who was mildly flattered.
“Women don’t usually like Polworth.”
“I thought he was married?”
“He is. His wife doesn’t like him.”
Robin laughed.
“Why did you think Pat would be calling me?” asked Strike.
“I’ve just had her on the phone.
Miss Jones is upset at not getting updates from you personally.”
“I’ll FaceTime her later,” said Strike, as they drove across the common, windscreen wipers working. “Hopefully the beard’ll put her off.”
“Some women like them,” said Robin, and Strike couldn’t help wondering whether Robin was one of them.
“Sounds like Hutchins and Barclay are closing in on Dopey’s partner,” he said.
“Yes,” said Robin. “Barclay’s offering to go out to Majorca and have a look around.”
“I’ll bet he is. Are you still on for interviewing the new subcontractor together, Monday?”
“Michelle? Yes, definitely,” said Robin
“Hopefully we’ll be back in the office by then.”
Robin turned into Kyrle Road. There was no sign of press, so she parked outside a Victorian terraced house divided into two flats.
When Strike rang the bell labeled “Phipps/Sullivan,” they heard footsteps on stairs through the door, which opened to reveal Anna Phipps, who was wearing the same baggy blue cotton jumpsuit and white canvas shoes as the first time they’d met her, in Falmouth.
“Come in,” she said, smiling as she retreated so that they could enter a small square of space at the bottom of the staircase. The walls were painted white: a series of abstract, monochrome prints covered the walls, and the fanned window over the door cast pools of light onto the uncarpeted stairs, reminding Robin of the St. Peter’s nursing home, and the life-size Jesus watching over the entrance.
“I’m going to try not to cry,” said Anna quietly, as though scared of being overheard, but in spite of her resolution, her eyes were already full of tears. “I’m sorry, but I—I’d really like to hug you,” she said, and she promptly did so, embracing first Robin, then Strike. Stepping back, she shook her head, half-laughing, and wiped her eyes.
“I can’t ever express to you how grateful… how grateful I am. What you’ve given me…” She made an ineffable gesture and shook her head. “It’s just so… so strange. I’m incredibly happy and relieved, but at the same time, I’m grieving… Does that make sense?”
“Totally,” said Robin. Strike grunted.
“Everyone’s here,” said Anna, gesturing upstairs. “Kim, Dad, Cyn, and Oonagh, too. I invited her down for a few days. We’re planning the funeral, you see—Dad and Cyn are really leaving it up to me—anyway… come up, everyone wants to thank you…”
As they followed Anna up the steep stairs, Strike using the banister to heave himself along, he remembered the tangle of emotions that had hit him when he’d received the phone call telling him of his own mother’s death. Amid the engulfing wave of grief had been a slight pinprick of relief, which had shocked and shamed him, and which had taken a long time to process. Over time, he’d come to understand that in some dark corner of his mind, he’d been dreading and half-expecting the news. The ax had fallen at last, suspense was forever over: Leda’s appalling taste in men had culminated in a sordid death on a dirty mattress, and while he’d missed her ever since, he’d be a liar if he claimed to miss the toxic mixture of anxiety, guilt and dread he’d endured over her last couple of years of life.
He could only imagine the mixture of emotions currently possessing Margot’s husband, or the nanny who’d taken Margot’s place in the family. As he reached the upper landing, he glimpsed Roy Phipps sitting in an armchair in the sitting room. Their eyes met briefly, before Kim came out of the room, blocking Strike’s view of the hematologist. The blonde psychologist was smiling broadly: she, at least, seemed to feel unalloyed pleasure.
“Well,” she said, shaking first Strike’s hand, then Robin’s, “what can we say, really? Come through…”
Strike and Robin followed Anna and Kim into the sitting room, which was as large and airy as their Falmouth holiday home, with long gauze curtains at the windows, stripped floorboards, a large white rug and pale gray walls. The books had been arranged by color. Everything was simple and well designed; very different from the house in which Anna had grown up, with its ugly Victorian bronzes and chintz-covered chairs. The only art on the walls was over the fireplace: a black and white photograph of sea and sky.
Rain was beating on the large bay window behind Roy, who was already on his feet. He wiped his hand nervously on his trousers before holding it out to Strike.
“How are you?” he asked jerkily.
“Very well, thanks,” said Strike.
“Miss Ellacott,” said Roy, holding out his hand to Robin in turn. “I understand you actually…?”
The unspoken words found her seemed to ring around the room.
“Yes,” said Robin, and Roy nodded and pursed his lips, his large eyes leaving her to focus on one of the ragdoll cats, which had just prowled into the room, its aquamarine eyes shrewd.
“Sit down, Dad,” said Anna gently, and Roy did as he was told.
“I’ll just go and see whether Oonagh’s found everything; she’s making tea,” said Kim cheerfully, and left.
“Please, have a seat,” said Anna to Strike and Robin, who sat down side by side on the sofa. The moment Strike was settled, the ragdoll cat leapt up lightly beside him and stepped into his lap. Robin, meanwhile, had noticed the ottoman that stood in place of a coffee table. It was upholstered in gray and white striped canvas, and far smaller than the one in the Athorns’ flat, too small for a woman to curl up in, but even so, it was a piece of furniture Robin doubted she’d ever own, no matter how useful they might be. She’d never forget the dusty mass of hardened concrete, and the skull of Margot Bamborough curving up out of it.
“Where’s Cyn?” Anna asked her father.
“Bathroom,” said Roy, a little hoarsely. He threw a nervous glance at the empty landing beyond the door, before addressing the detective:
“I—I have to tell you how ashamed I am that I never hired anybody myself. Believe me, the thought that we could have known all this ten, twenty years ago…”
“Well, that’s not very good for our egos, Roy,” said Strike, stroking the purring cat. “Implying that anyone could have done what we did.”
Roy and Anna both laughed harder than the comment deserved, but Strike understood the need for the release of jokes, after a profound shock. Mere days after he’d been airlifted out of the bloody crater where he’d lain after his leg had been blown off, fading in and out of consciousness with Gary Topley’s torso beside him, he seemed to remember Richard Anstis, the other survivor, whose face had been mangled in the explosion, making a stupid joke about the savings Gary could have made on trousers, had he lived. Strike could still remember laughing at the idiotic, tasteless joke, and enjoying a few seconds’ relief from shock, grief and agony.
Women’s voices now came across the landing: Kim had returned with a tea tray, followed by Oonagh Kennedy, who was bearing a large chocolate cake. She was beaming from beneath her purple-streaked fringe, her amethyst cross bouncing on her chest as before, and when she’d put down the cake, she said,
“Here dey are, then, the heroes of the hour! I’m going to hug the pair of you!”
Robin stood to receive her tribute, but Strike, not wanting to disarrange the cat, received his hug awkwardly while sitting.
“And here I go again!” said Oonagh, laughing as she straightened up, and wiping her eyes. “I swear to God, it’s loike being on a rollercoaster. Up one minute, down the next—”
“I did the same, when I saw them,” said Anna, laughing at Oonagh. Roy’s smile, Robin noticed, was nervous and a little fixed. What did it feel like, she wondered, to be face to face with his dead wife’s best friend, after all these years? Did the physical changes in Oonagh make him wonder what Margot would have looked like, had she lived to the age of seventy? Or was he wondering anew, as he must have done over all the intervening years, whether his marriage would have survived the long stretch of icy silence that had followed her drink with Paul Satchwell, whether the strains and tensions in the relationship could have been overcome, or whether Margot w
ould have taken Oonagh up on her offer of refuge in her flat?
They’d have divorced, Robin thought, with absolute certainty, but then she wondered whether she wasn’t tangling up Margot with herself, as she’d tended to do all through the case.
“Oh, hello,” said a breathless voice, from the doorway, and everyone looked around to see Cynthia, on whose thin, sallow face was a smile that didn’t quite reach her anxious, mottled eyes. She was wearing a black dress, and Robin wondered whether she’d consciously put it on to suggest mourning. “Sorry, I was—how are you both?”
“Fine,” said Robin.
“Great,” said Strike.
Cynthia let out one of her nervous, breathless laughs, and said,
“Yes, no—so wonderful—”
Was it wonderful for Cynthia, Robin wondered, as Anna’s stepmother pulled up a chair, and she declined a piece of the cake which, it transpired, Oonagh had gone out in the rain to purchase. How did it feel to have Margot Bamborough back, even in the form of a skeleton in a box? Did it hurt to see her husband so shaken and emotional, and to have to receive Oonagh, Margot’s best friend, into the heart of the family, like a newly discovered aunt? Robin, who seemed to be on something of a clairvoyant streak, felt sure that if Margot had never been killed, but had simply divorced Roy, Cynthia would never have been the hematologist’s choice of second wife. Margot would probably have begged the young Cynthia to accompany her into her new life, and continue looking after Anna. Would Cynthia have agreed, or would her loyalties have lain with Roy? Where would she have gone, and who would she have married, once there was no place for her at Broom House?
Troubled Blood: A Cormoran Strike Novel Page 95